


A Terrible Spy: Cedric das Krokodil

by Cicerothewriter



Series: A Terrible Spy [2]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Espionage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the ABC Murders, Hastings returned with a caiman named Cedric, which he had shot on a hunting trip.  However, what was Hastings really doing in Venezuela?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Terrible Spy: Cedric das Krokodil

**Author's Note:**

> Series: _A Terrible Spy_. It's necessary to read that story before this one.
> 
> Note: I can't leave this AU alone. Hehe. Thanks to Soul_bonnie for the encouragement and beta.

In the summer of 1936, I returned to Venezuela on an assignment. My handler ordered me to acquire information about the oil reserves in the country, and he said that I could use any means I wished to accomplish my task. I decided that an exploratory trip would be ideal, in part, because I wished to have a holiday but also it was what would be expected of Captain Hastings. In addition, I thought that some time away from Poirot might benefit us both; he had been in a sour mood for the past few weeks, and as much as I loved him, I desired some peace.

I sailed to Barcelona, and from there I traveled through the Andes mountain range which ended in Venezuela and then across the lowlands to the Orinoco River. It was summer, and therefore blistering hot, but I enjoyed myself immensely. I was in a party with several English men and women, some of whom complained about the heat and mosquitoes, and every so often I would feel homesick for Poirot.

During my travels, I kept an ear out for whom I should target as my primary source of information about the country's oil reserves, and while we followed at leisure the Orinoco towards its end I learned that one of the local barons, Carlos Behrens, was friends with an oil-financed despot. I also learned that he had a taste for masculine company. I suspected that I might be a bit too old for his palate, but I had conquered heartier prey than him.

Word must have reached him that a group of foreign travelers were in his town because he sent us an invitation to a dinner he was hosting. When we arrived, I suspected that I would not have to work hard to gain his attention. Carlos Behrens an attractive man, tall and dark, with luminous brown eyes and a perfectly trimmed moustache. His hair was dark and cut short in military style, and when I asked in a casual manner if he had been in the military, he talked quite boastfully about his military accomplishments. I made sure to nod and smile appreciatively, giving him my full attention. I did not have to feign desire.

I was seated away from him during dinner, which was a detriment as far as gaining knowledge from him, but a positive because I could gauge my affect on him. I was pleased to note that his eyes kept returning to my face. While chatting with my dinner companions, I learned that Behrens was rumored to have dealings with both the French and the Italians. Whispers of secret deals – arms in exchange for oil – were prevalent, and I wondered how much of this was true. Rumors were excellent as a starting point, but the proof I needed had to be on paper for it to be effective. To obtain this proof, I would need to gain entrance to his office. I looked up, and met his eyes; I could feel my eyes dilate, my breath quicken, my body tighten.

Perfect.

After dinner, we gathered in the drawing room for drinks. I talked for a time with one of my traveling companions, but I was distracted by Behrens' presence. As the others discussed returning to camp, Behrens came up behind me and whispered for me to stay. I nodded, and made myself scarce as my companions departed.

Behrens smiled at me, and said, "Thank you, captain, for remaining. I thought we might have a more _interesting_ conversation on our own."

I blushed slightly, and looked down at my drink. "Yes," I said, able to hear the slight hitch of his breath. "I believe that you are right."

I kept my face down, and glanced at him. He was looking at me, the hunger obvious in his expression and… elsewhere. He said, "Come. We shall retire to somewhere quieter and more private."

I nodded, and followed him further into the house. I was careful to remember each turn and corridor so that I could leave without aid, if necessary. We entered his private sitting room, which was decorated in a lavish and eclectic manner. My attention was caught by something on the mantel, and I smiled in pleasure.

"What is this?" I asked him

Behrens' smiled with pride, and said, "He is a caiman. I shot him on the Orinoco during my last hunting expedition."

"What is his name?" I asked, leaning down slightly to inspect the caiman further.

"Name?" he said, laughing. "We do not give names to dead animals."

"Oh," I said, surprised and vaguely disappointed.

"If you like him so much, you may have him," Behrens said as he walked to the sideboard. He poured us two drinks, and added, "Then you may name him whatever you wish."

I gave him a shy smile, hoping to affect his macho blood. "Thank you. You are most generous."

"I am not normally so generous," he said, beckoning me over with a nod of his head. Normally I would have balked at being summoned in such an offish manner, but submitting to his base nature would gain me more than my own natural arrogance would.

I took the whiskey which he offered, and sat down on the couch as he directed. I sipped at my whiskey while he swallowed his in one go (which I noted as useful information for later). "Why are you being so generous to me?" I asked, resuming our conversation.

"Because I think you will give me something in return," he replied, leaning closer to me.

My eyebrows rose slightly at his frankness, but I could not help smiling. "And what is it you want from me?"

"I want you," he replied, his hand caressing my cheek. His touch was surprisingly soft and tender, and for a moment I felt guilt for using him.

"What makes you think I will give myself to you?" I asked, feeling breathless.

"You have been giving yourself to me all night," he replied simply, leaning still closer.

"Have I?" I said, moving closer to him.

"Yes," he replied, his lips brushing mine.

"Well," I said, teasing him. "You should take me."

He growled softly, and then kissed me. His arms came round me, holding me in a firm embrace. His kiss was hard and deep, and I could barely think for several seconds, my plans momentarily sidetracked by a powerful lust. It had been so long since I had felt the touch of a lover, and I grew tired of waiting for my chance with Poirot. I loved him dearly, but dear lord did I need someone.

My hands stroked his chest and stomach, and then clasped his erection through the cloth. He moaned into my mouth, one hand tightening on my backside, the other clasping my neck. I stroked and fondled him, eager to feel him within me. I wanted him hard and fast; I wanted to feel it next week. I wanted to forget Poirot and how much I missed him.

He pulled back, and his hands on my shoulders pushed me down his body. I unfastened his trousers, and pulled both them and his underwear down his legs. I shrugged off my own jacket, and then took him in my hands. He moaned, and pushed his hips into my strokes.

I leant forward and pressed my tongue against the underside of the tip, letting it rest there for a moment. I wiggled my tongue slightly, and he shouted a curse, his hand moving to pet my hair roughly. I licked and kissed his shaft up and down, giving him a show. He seemed the sort to gained pleasure by watching as much as by touch, and I was not disappointed by his reaction.

I then took him deeply into my mouth, slowly moving further down until I reached the base. His back bowed, and his fingers tightened almost painfully in my hair. I sucked hard, bobbing my head – sometimes in long and slow strokes, other times short and fast. He cried and cursed, and just as I was beginning to tire, his obtained satisfaction.

When he was done, I released him, panting softly. He leaned forward, and kissed me, one of his hands sliding down my body to stroke me through my trousers. I was painfully hard, and my moan was desperate.

He laughed, and bid me to rise. "You are, without the doubt, the best I have ever experienced."

"Thank you," I said, my voice tight due to my desperation.

He laughed, and with a slap to my bum said, "Pour us both a drink."

I gapped at him, and he grinned at me. His expression was full of arrogance and lust as he said, "If you want something in return, you had better do as I ask."

I clenched my jaw, and went to the sideboard. I saw his head drop back on the couch, the lazy satisfaction on his face. I had briefly considered delaying my assignment so that I could satisfy my need, but I felt disgusting and unappreciated. Was I so desperate that I would ignore my duty and cavort with a man who by his actions proved himself selfish and self-absorbed?

I could say that Poirot was also an arrogant man and could be selfish and blind to those around him, but I knew that his motives were not malicious. I also knew, thanks to Pierre's bragging and desire to tout his hold over Poirot, that Poirot was a considerate and enthusiastic lover, one who did not stop until his partner was satisfied. If I could even have the chance for his love, should I sate myself with this substandard man?

My thoughts, though complicated to describe on paper, occupied no more than a few seconds. I poured us both a drink, and dropped the sedative in his glass. By the time I turned around, the little white pill had dissolved completely.

After sipping at mine, I smiled at him, my wits now firmly restored. I began to kiss down his neck, seeking to remove his clothes. A naked man was a vulnerable man, and if I needed to restrain him, then the clothes would act as temporary ropes. He hummed at my ministrations, his hands moving over my now calm body. When I was removing his shoes, he drifted off to sleep.

I took his clothes with me as I searched for his office. Fortunately I did not have to search for long. The room attached to his private sitting room was his bedroom, and further beyond there was a hidden door to his private office.

I tossed his clothes into a corner, and after putting on my gloves, I began to search his desk. I did not find much until I searched for hidden drawers and compartments. I had never seen a safe that was constructed to blend into the wall, and I marveled at the design. Cracking it took only a few minutes, and then I had found what I was seeking and much more. Not only were there agreements with various governments as far as oil was concerned, but there were notes on current oil deposits, suspected oil deposits, and notes on plans for further expeditions. Most impressive were the aggravated letters about the lack of reason involved in putting together Italian secret codes, how stubborn the Belgian embassy was (I could certain attest to that), and several rude comments about a certain British spy whom I cannot name here (but I had met the chap, and the comments were spot on). I had become so engrossed in what I had found that I failed to hear someone approaching until the last possible moment.

I turned in time to miss a heavy stone paperweight that would have crushed my skull. Behrens grabbed me by the neck, spun me around, and slammed me onto his office desk. I felt the wind knocked from me, and when I tried to struggle, I felt cold metal against my ear and the click of a revolver being cocked.

"You have been sent to spy on me," he cried, his body trembling with anger. He was still aroused, or perhaps the adrenaline from the fight had renewed his arousal, and his naked erection pressed against my backside. "Who sent you?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said blithely. "You passed out, and so I got a bit curious."

It was his turn to gape at my words. His hand pressed against my back, pushing me painfully against his desk. "Don't play stupid," he said, snarling at me. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me," I replied, aware that I should do something soon before he lost patience.

"Fool!" he cried, leaning against me and reaching around with his arm so that he had a good chokehold around my neck. "Why are you here?"

I let myself grown limp beneath him, and arched my hips upward against his arousal. My movements startled him, and that allowed me to slide my body down the desk just enough to gain my footing. I then pressed back quickly and dislodged him, sending him into the wall behind us. By the time he started to aim his revolver, I had spun around to face him. Using that momentum, I lifted my right elbow, and sent it swiftly into his esophagus. He gasped and dropped the gun, clutching his throat and bending over. I then used the flat part of my upper arm to give a good crack against the base of his skull. He dropped to the floor, moaning softly in pain. I swiftly tied him up with his stomach on the floor and his limbs bent behind him, a painful but more difficult position from which to escape, and I gagged him with his shirt.

I locked the door as well, and began to gather up the papers. It was fortunate that I locked it because I heard his butler run up and knock politely. "Sir?"

I glanced down at Behrens before bending myself over his desk and miming the delicate rocking of furniture and soft, breathy moans. Behrens was still groaning on the floor, which completed the picture. I could almost feel the butler's embarrassment as he backed away and departed. I picked up the remainder of the papers, and looked down at Behrens.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," I said, smiling politely at him.

His muffled scream was anything but reciprocal.

"I hope I can still take my crocodile," I replied, using my most clueless and innocent voice. "In return, of course, for what I have given you."

I smiled at him, and his expression told me that he would kill me with his bare hands if he could.

I left him in his office, although I was not so cruel as to lock the door from the inside; I did take care to lock him inside so that should he loosen his bonds, he would still be trapped. I straightened my clothes, and put on my jacket. I then took the caiman from his perch, and made my escape.

Needless to say, I did not return to camp, but made haste to the coast. I returned to Germany for a brief visit with my handlers and my father, and then I set sail for England.

At the train station, I felt a great relief to see Poirot smiling and happy to see me. He kissed my cheeks, his gentle hands strong on my arms. I rested my hands at his waist for a few moments, relishing this homecoming.

I had hoped that Poirot would like my present. I took him carefully from the attendants, and smiled at Poirot, who looked startled.

"Who is your friend, Hastings?" he asked.

"Oh, this is Cedric. He is a caiman. I shot him on the Orinoco."

I had a false story all ready to tell him – about how I had tracked and shot the beast – but he understandably wanted to leave the train station for the comfort of home. I was delighted when he invited me to stay with him rather than at a hotel, and I hoped to live there for as long as possible.

I was home.

 

Years later…

I was searching through my old closet, looking for some unneeded items to donate to the war effort, when I spotted Cedric. I removed him from the closet, and inspected him. The smell which Poirot had complained about still lingered (along with Poirot's expensive cologne which I had used in an attempt to temper the smell), and I smiled at the memories. Less pleasant were the memories of how I had obtained the creature.

I brought him out along with several suits, and perched him on the pile of donations on the dining room table. Poirot looked up from where he had been reading, and wrinkled his nose at it. "You found him, I see," he said, removing his pince nez.

"Yes," I replied. "He was in the closet under some old blankets."

"What will you do with him?" Poirot asked, giving Cedric a wary glance.

"Do you think one of the museums would like him?" I asked.

"You do not wish to keep him?" Poirot asked, surprised.

"Not really," I replied. "You did not like him, and I brought him for you."

Poirot had the decency to look a bit bashful. "I apologize, _mon ami_ , but I could never get used to the smell." At my laugh, he said, "But he would be a reminder of your trip. I know that you were proud to shoot him."

I already knew that my expression revealed my guilty conscience. Poirot's expression changed to one of keen inspection. I reluctantly admitted, "I did not shoot him."

Poirot closed his book, and said, "What did you do?"

I fiddled with my hands nervously before shoving them into my pockets. I said, "I found him during an assignment." Poirot remained silent, his attention firm on me. I continued, "I was told to investigate Venezuelan oil deposits and who was interested in them. When I was invited to the party of one of the baron's involved in oil deals, I found Cedric."

Poirot nodded, his movements short and sharp. He said, "And the baron gave you this after you obtained your information."

I tried not to blush at the insinuation, but I could not hide the heat in my cheeks. "No, before I obtained the information."

"What did you do, Hastings?" he asked, his full lips pinched together with displeasure. I was distracted for a moment, and then realized that he was still waiting for me to answer.

"We flirted, and he invited me into his private sitting room. I drugged his drink, broke into his office, and stole his papers."

"And his crocodile," Poirot said, his voice betraying his skepticism. "Did you escape undetected?"

"No, he woke up and found me – had me thrown onto his desk and a gun to my head."

Poirot stood up quickly, his alarmed cry gratifying.

"I tricked him, and tied him up with his own trousers," I said, smiling at the memory.

Poirot glared at me. "He was not wearing his trousers?"

"Um, no," I replied, realizing that I had given the game away.

"You made love to him, Hastings, while acting as the raven?" Poirot asked, his expression a perfect example of iced fury.

"No," I cried, wincing at his words. Behrens had not been an honorable man, but I still felt a small amount of guilt for deceiving him. "I had intended – perhaps – to do so, but his manner proved most detestable."

I raised my hands up to embrace myself, still feeling the shadow of loneliness that I had felt then. "I wanted someone, Poirot, and I was desperate enough to use this moment to my advantage. I hadn't felt someone's passion in – too long."

"What did he do?" Poirot asked. He put his hand on my chin, and forced me to look up. His concern for me was gratifying, as was the jealousy; his anger, though, was justified, and my only hope was that he would forgive me.

My blush deepened at his question; Poirot would often try to convince me to speak about such matters, but my natural reticence kept me from fulfilling those particular desires. I said softly, "After I, I pleasured him – with my mouth – he ordered me to bring him a drink. He slapped my bum, too. He laughed at me, my distress."

Poirot tutted softly, and kissed me. "He was a brute then."

"Yes, yes, and the moment was lost. I realized that I should not continue – that I was fooling myself – and that I should get on with my mission."

"Fooling yourself?"

"Yes, he was not you. I knew that you would not act in so callous a manner."

"How did you know?"

"Pierre told me."

Poirot hissed, and said, "Pierre did not know when to remain silent."

"Well, he is French."

"Hastings," Poirot said with reproach.

"I'm sorry," I replied, pouting a bit. "He wanted to hurt me."

"I wish that he had not," Poirot said. He glanced over at Cedric, and said, "I do not want that thing in our home any longer."

I nodded. "I shall forward him on to the British Museum." A thought occurred to me, and I added, "Or perhaps my father might like him."

Poirot shook his head. "The museum, Hastings, would be preferable."

Poirot took my hand, and led me into the bedroom. At my protest that it was too early for bed, Poirot glared at me, and said, "I do not wish to look at that thing for the rest of the night."

He tugged me close, and kissed me. I returned his kiss, reaching up to stroke his chest and shoulders. He kissed down my neck, murmuring as he did so, "You must excuse my jealousy, _mon chou_. During that holiday of yours, my own loneliness for you was exceptional. To know that you felt the same…"

"I did, Poirot. I did." I guided his mouth to mine, and kissed him tenderly. "I wanted him to make me forget, but no one could. I was a fool to think otherwise."

"Yes, you were," Poirot said with a decisive nod.

"You needn't agree too strongly," I replied, both amused and disgruntled.

"Your pout is too pretty to resist," Poirot said, teasing me.

"Thank you, _mein Bärchen_."

Poirot clucked his tongue at my giggles. "I do not approve of that endearment."

"But you are my little bear," I replied, embracing him around the middle. "You excel at cuddling." At his harrumph, I added, "You are fury."

Poirot shook his head. I wished to tease him further, but I felt an odd solemnity that I could not shake. I said softly, "You love me." He looked at me, and I added, "No matter what I do or what I have done."

" _Mais oui, mon cher_ Arthur, I love you."

We kissed again, our movements slow and gentle. We removed each other's clothes piece by piece, taking our time and offering pleasure for the skin we bared. I drew my tongue against his nipples, my fingers stroking his dark chest hair. He kissed down my spine as he slid my shirt down my back. I admired his hips, holding them between my hands and kissing his paleness, every so often sucking on the skin. I heard his breath hitch as I did so. I drew his trousers down his legs, and massaged his calves. His hands stroked and fondled my backside, his thumbs brushing teasingly between them. I felt his moustache against the backs of my thighs and then the softness of his lips, and I moaned my approval.

We resumed kissing, enjoying the lazy pleasure and the heat, hands gliding more easily due to perspiration. The room was actually quite cool, but we hardly noticed. Our hips pressed against each other, and when Poirot took our shafts together in one of his hands, I moaned helplessly.

"Hercule," I whispered, not wanting to disturb the peace which surrounded us. "Please."

Poirot kissed me gently. "What do you want, _mon chou_?"

"Anything," I whispered, kissing his chest.

He pressed a kiss to my brow. I lay back against the sheets as he reached for the lotion, and I hummed my approval as I watched his elegant movements. He settled himself between my legs, and took my shaft into his mouth. I moaned at the pleasure of his hot mouth and the sure fingers pressing inside of me. I rested my hands against his black hair, stroking lightly and encouraging him further. I squeezed his shoulder to let him know that I was close, and he slid his mouth from me, although his fingers still moved within me.

I whispered my plea, my face turning red, and he nodded, kissing me again. He gently removed his fingers and then knelt next to my head. I turned onto my side so that I could caress his member, and then I leaned forward to take him in my mouth. He moaned softly, his hands gentle on my hair. I took him deeply, letting my tongue play against his slick skin. My free hand I used to stroke and cradle his testicles, pleased by his murmurs of lust. His hips thrust in time with me, but his movements were light and easy, not forceful in the slightest. Eventually he pulled back, and I could see that he was close.

He leaned forward to kiss me, and then resumed his place between my thighs. As he slid inside of me, I moaned and reached over my head to brace myself against the headboard. His thrusts were gentle but deep, and I rolled my hips into his thrusts, deepening them yet further. Our breathy sighs and moans mingled, his French curses complimenting my German pleas beautifully. The creak of the bed frame and the slide of skin against sheet were the perfect accompaniment to our lovemaking. Poirot insisted on the most expensive Egyptian cotton, and as I savored its coolness underneath my back, I could understand why.

I whispered his name, and bent my knees closer to my chest so that he could thrust faster and deeper. He moaned my name – my real name – and I felt myself release, a pleasure so great that I felt myself disintegrate, only to be reshaped by his hands, his breath, his body. I tightened my body around his shaft, and he cried out, coming apart just as completely within me. I could only hope that I remade him with equal satisfaction.

We panted softly against each other, trembling and shaken. I kissed him gently, and curled against him. Eventually he drew the comforter against us.

"Sleep well, Arthur," he murmured.

"Yes, love," I whispered. I could sleep well now that I was home.


End file.
